


Liberosis

by angelwing



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Drinking, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwing/pseuds/angelwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>liberosis. n. the desire to care less about things.</p><p>Francis isn't sure why he expected things to end any differently between him and Charles tonight. Or maybe he didn't, and at this point he's just so desperate that he's willing to pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liberosis

After the final eruption of pleasure, an intense heat spreading over his body and causing all coherent thoughts to be seemingly burned from his mind, the only remaining one being along the lines of _Charles, Charles, CHARLES,_ a heavy silence fell. Francis’ heart pounded in his chest and echoed in his ears, and as he lay in bed ( _Charles’_ bed) there was a brief moment of warm numbness where no thoughts came to him and all he could feel was his own heartbeat and the rising and falling of his own chest. He hardly felt Charles stir, was unaware for a long while that he was no longer being crushed under the weight of the other.

Then, slowly, he grew hyperaware of his surroundings. Hypersensitive to the bed sheets beneath him, soft against bare skin. Sensitive to the fact that he was uncovered and exposed for everyone to see, only vaguely remembering that there was no one to see him now but Charles. One of his hands was gripping the sheets, he realized, so tightly that he could feel his nails through it, digging into the palm of his hand. He let go slowly, fingers uncurling from the fabric. His breathing was returning to a normal pace and the world had ceased spinning (and how did he know it was spinning? His eyes were closed...).

It was with a little, awkward whine that he forced himself to sit up and opened his eyes. Now off of the sheets, he could feel the faintest traces of scratch marks stinging his back, but it was a dull sensation, one that was easily overpowered by the pounding of his own exhausted heart. Around him was darkness. The window was open and the sky was a deep navy blue. There were no stars out tonight, and the pure blackness of the outside world seemed to seep into the bedroom. Francis blinked, vision blurry, heart now slowed down past what he felt was safe, beating tiredly, body warm all over and mind, now capable of at least minimal thoughts, still fixated very much on the events that had just taken place.

Charles, Francis came to realize, was sitting up a ways away from him. He had a look on his face and although Francis could not read it, it made his own smile (when had he started smiling?) falter and his cheeks, already flushed with exertion, turn an even deeper shade of scarlet.

“Alright?” Charles asked, with a sort of casualty as if he were asking Francis what he thought of a meal he had just prepared. He stretched and stood up before Francis had time to respond.

With a nod that was probably a little too eager and a smile a bit too wide, Francis replied, “More than alright, yes!” Charles was too busy gathering his clothes, which had been thrown in a pile on the side of the bed, to respond. Francis did his best not to stare at his naked body, did his best not to want him too badly. What had just transpired was already the most he would ever get from Charles, and he had to remember to stay aware of that.

Charles let out a little snort at Francis’ compliment. “Yeah?” He looked back at him now, clothing in hand, and Francis was momentarily relieved to see that there was a small smirk on his face, the expression a bit more comforting than the completely blank one he had worn a moment ago. Then, he said, “How drunk are you?”

The question took Francis by surprise and he blinked, eyebrows furrowing. “How drunk?” he repeated. The warm afterglow of sex beginning to wear off, he felt a shiver run through him as a faint draft blew through from the open window. The scratches on his back stung a bit more now. Cheeks still tinted red, he murmured, “Not very…”

They _had_ been drinking tonight. And Charles was rarely a light drinker. Francis guessed he was pretty intoxicated at this point, but he personally had not had too much to drink over the course of the evening. By this time of night he was left with nothing but a faint buzz, a sort of dizziness that he credited just as much to the sex as he did to the alcohol.

A vaguely interested hum of acknowledgement left Charles at that and he nodded, pulling up his boxers and walking to his dresser, where a packet of cigarettes lay. Francis watched, confused, chewing on his lower lip absentmindedly as the other lit a cigarette and began to smoke. The silence went on for too long and Francis, no longer in a state of inattentive bliss and now very alert and aware of his surroundings and capable of following the conversation that was slowly taking place, swallowed nervously and said, “Why do you ask, Charles?”

Charles breathed out a puff of smoke, gazing at Francis through it with a look that felt a thousand times colder than the air that was blowing incessantly from the window and onto Francis’ naked body. He shrunk back, feeling exposed, feeling like he was being watched with the sort of judgmental eye that the mother duck must have given the ugly duckling.

“As far as I’m concerned, you were drunk off your ass tonight, you understand? As was I. I invited you over for a drink, got too drunk to think, and I fucked you because I was drunk, horny, and you were there.” Charles was still speaking casually. Too casually. He sounded like he was talking about some gossip he overheard at lunch, or the results of an exam. He drummed his fingers on the nightstand and the soft _tap tap tap tap_ drew Francis’ attention, and a shiver ran down his spine as he remembered those fingers only moments before, running down his sides, gripping to his hip, brushing over his thigh, scratching his back…

Francis tried to ignore Charles’ words, and tried even harder to force himself out of that memory, knowing there was no point in dwelling on it now. He looked down, eyes focusing on nothing. “Can you hand me my clothes?” he asked quietly, hesitantly, like he was worried Charles would refuse.

But he didn’t. Exhaling more smoke in a manner that mirrored a sigh, Charles walked to the end of the bed, where Francis' clothing lay on the ground. He tossed the wadded up bundle of clothes to him, and they landed softly on the bed in front of him.

Francis did not get up as he began to dress himself. This was not the first (or second, or third) time that the two of them had slept together. It was not that Charles was _ashamed_ of the sex. It was something else, that Francis could not quite pinpoint, that caused him to behave the way he did. Truth be told, Francis had come to expect at this point that the night would not end with close cuddles and gentle kisses and loving whispers and whatever it was couples were supposed to do after sex.

Charles was drunk, in the morning he would be hungover, and he did not want to spend the evening acting like he was attracted to Francis - because he wasn’t. That was the fact, and Francis was well aware.

And now Francis was wondering why he was sitting there, half dressed (his shirt was on, as well as the jacket he wore over it, but he had not bothered to get up and thus from the waist down he was still bare), hair a mess and body sore and mind slightly buzzed with alcohol. A sort of bitterness flared in him and he stood up. “I’ll be going now,” Surprisingly, the anger that was building in the pit of his stomach did not come out when he spoke. He was not capable of being mad at Charles just yet.

“Yeah? Drive safely. You’re drunk, remember?”

For some reason, the fact that there was a sort of playfulness to his tone, a tone of teasing concern that would typically have been expected between friends, made the anger in Francis boil over and then, after a brief wave of fury, turn into an intense despair that brought him almost instantly to tears. Francis swallowed hard, body suddenly weak in a way not unlike it had been moments ago, when he lay in bed and came down from his pleasure-induced high.

“Good night, Charles.” Francis’ words were devoid of any emotion, but they quivered a bit.

“G’night, Francis.” Charles sounded casual, and Francis wanted nothing more than to start running, to sprint from the room and down the hall and out the door and to his car.

Instead he simply drew in a deep breath. In retrospect, it should have been quite clear how upset he was, even to Charles. And Francis knew that if Charles _was_ aware he would have said something. In just a few hours he knew that they would be on decent terms again. Friendly terms, even. Charles was one of Francis’ best friends. But Charles was drunk, Charles was not thinking about anyone but himself. If Charles felt any sort of love for Francis, it certainly was not the type of love Francis felt for him. And in the intoxicated state he was in he was not paying attention to detail: The tremble in Francis’ tone, the way his body was shivering just a bit, the soft sniffling, the ragged breath.

Francis walked out of the bedroom, and the halls felt alien and empty and much too large. Objects he recognized, the stack of books Charles had left in the corner, the table with the vase of dying flowers that Camilla had promised she would throw away about a week ago, seemed unknown and mysterious and vaguely threatening to him. Francis walked lightly, avoiding interaction with any of the array of items scattered around the room.

Rather than walking into the living room and out the front door of the apartment, Francis turned to the door beside the one to Charles’ bedroom. He stared at it, eyes fixated on the doorknob, a frown on his face and tears that he was not even aware of in his eyes, and then he walked to it and tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked, and he opened it easily, and he stepped inside of a bedroom not unlike the one he had just been in.

But in this bed lay a girl with golden hair. A long, white nightgown hugged her lithe body, and in the blackness of night she looked almost like a ghost, pale and pure but so out of place in the blackness of the terrible darkness. A small, lost spirit floating amongst whatever hell Francis had found himself in (his back was stinging more now, had Charles broken skin?). A little smile, weak but full of adoration, found its way onto Francis’ lips.

“Camilla?” Francis’ voice sounded loud, too loud, and he winced as if expecting it to echo, to bounce off the walls, to cause the whole building to tremble. He almost feared that Charles, only a room away, would hear and come running, demanding why in the world he was waking his sister up at this hour. But Charles did not come, and Camilla did not stir, and the room remained very still and quiet. “Camilla…?”

A very soft sigh left the sleeping girl’s lips. She opened her eyes and sat up, just a bit, and after blinking tiredly for a moment, her gaze landed on Francis and she stared at him with a sort of worried confusion. “Francis…? Are you… are you alright?”

Francis stepped forward. He looked around the room, eyes suddenly unable to meet Camilla’s for a moment, a sort of embarrassment, even shame, filling his chest. Then he finally forced his gaze back upon the ethereal girl in front of him. “I… Charles and I, we-”

Camilla’s eyes, which had been before on Francis’ face, wandered down. Francis wasn’t entirely sure why but it was an odd enough gesture for him to stop talking, his face warming up a bit. Then the warmth in his face became a great heat and his cheeks burned red as he realized that he was still only partially dressed, and he stood there half naked in Camilla’s room. And when she looked back up at him, there was a slight, barely there smile on her face. But to Francis’ surprise, it was not one of amusement or mockery. She looked almost sympathetic.

“Are you alright, Francis?” she asked. Her tone was gentle, and perhaps it was just because she had woken up only seconds before but there was a sort of softness in her tone that was not common with her. Francis, eager for sympathy and acknowledgement and some form of comfort, was instantly drawn by her words, and he walked forward and sat down on the end of the bed.

Camilla crawled over to meet him, and lay down on her stomach beside him. Propped up on her elbows and chin resting in her hands, she gazed up at him with eyes that shone bright in the darkness, in oppose to the way his eyes, a deep, dark brown, always seemed to absorb any possible light like a sponge and remain perfectly black in the night.

“I don’t know.” Francis admitted softly. The embarrassment of being half naked was gone. He could trust Camilla, he thought. In some ways he felt more comfortable around her than he did Charles, which was odd, considering it was Charles who had, only a short while before, been touching every inch of his exposed body, and he had gladly, eagerly allowed him to.

For a moment Camilla did not respond. Her gaze was tired and her hair, Francis noticed, was tangled and unkempt with sleep, curling in random spots and looking oddly disheveled on the top of her head.

She looked so much like her brother.

Finally, she hummed and said, “Charles cares about you.”

“I know, Camilla.”

“He’s your friend.”

“I know that too.”

“He just-”

This wasn’t helping. Francis felt agitated, felt like he was being talked to like a child who had just been bitten by his pet dog. “I _know_ , Camilla, why are you-”

“What, do you _want_ me to be hard on you?” Camilla’s tone was teasing, Francis realized, which caused any possible anger that may have been rising to instantly subside and his cheeks to redden again. She chuckled softly. There was a moment of silence, and then she said, “You shouldn’t keep doing this.” Instantly, incredibly, her face was expressionless and her words were emotionless. They lacked judgement, but they were also devoid of care. Francis did not know what to make of the drastic change.

Awkwardly, he gave a little shrug. “Well, I- I really… care.”

“So does he. I just said that. But not the way you want him to.”

“I know.” Francis said for what felt like the hundredth time that night, but for the first time there was sincerity in his words. He felt tears once again begin to form in his eyes and he blinked them away. “I know that, Camilla, I know. I just… It feels good, at the moment. Not just the sex, I mean. It’s not that, I could- I mean… The moment it’s happening, it’s like I can… pretend… Like in that short amount of time, I can feel like he _does_ care, like he and I are meant to be and he really-”

“You’re crying.” Camilla interrupted bluntly, and Francis’ eyes widened briefly and he reached up to hastily wipe the tears away. Before he could continue talking, Camilla added, “You’ve also had a lot to drink.” She sat up with a sigh and rested her head on Francis’ shoulder. Her hair tickled his neck, the soft honey-colored strands brushing into flesh that her brother’s mouth had been on only a short while before, and he reached to run his hands through it. “You can stay here, if you want. With me. I’m sure Charles won’t mind me going and getting your things so you can get dressed.”

Francis appreciated the offer. He had spent the night with Camilla before, had fallen asleep in her arms. There was nothing sexual about it. She was his friend, one of his closest friends in the world, and there was a sort of happiness that came with being close to her, with the intimacy that came with sleeping with his body pressed close to her own.

A happiness Francis did not feel he had the energy for tonight. He smiled, but shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ll be driving home, I think.”

“You sure?” Camilla lifted her head to gaze at him curiously. “I’m sure Charles will be in a better mood in the morning, if you’re worried about that.”

For some reason, these words made Francis all the more sure of his decision not to stay. He did not want to see Charles in the morning, did not feel like he could handle a casual conversation. Things would be normal soon - they always were - but he absolutely would not be able to handle it first thing in the morning. He already knew how it would play out: Charles would be dismissive, would narrowly avoid acknowledging anything that had taken place the night before. He would stay true to the story he had invented for himself. He was too drunk to remember a moment of their time together.

Standing up, Francis shook his head for a second time. “No, I think I’m going to head home. I will see you tomorrow though, right?” He smiled and leaned down, placing a kiss to the top of her soft head. He wished it had been the only kiss he had given anyone that night. “Class at noon, I believe.”

He stepped back out to the hallway before he could hear Camilla respond. It was on quiet feet that he tiptoed nervously back to Charles’ room and found his pants and underwear still lying where he had left them on the bed. Charles, he saw, was asleep, wearing nothing but his boxers still and the sheets still undone around him.

He looked, for lack of any better, more subtle word, absolutely gorgeous. Francis stopped to stare in spite of his better judgement, admiring his features, eyes wandering over every inch of him; the soft, honey-yellow hair on his head, just a shade lighter than his sister’s, his handsome face, his strong body. All of the places he had kissed, had touched, had felt only a short while ago. A shaky breath escaped Francis and, snapping from his trance, he gathered up his clothing, quickly dressed himself, and quietly scurried out of the room.

As Francis once more began to walk down the hallway the image of Charles sleeping peacefully, a perfect painting of resting beauty, returned to his mind and he felt the sadness return to him, this time coupled with a sort of longing that made his chest ache. The night had been absolutely pointless. Charles was not his. They would see each other in class tomorrow, inevitably, and what had transpired tonight would never come up.

Francis stepped outside. The air was cold and his body felt sore and used and dirty. For a brief moment he imagined a scene play out in his mind where Charles came bursting through the front door, apologizing, begging him to come back, to spend the night. Telling him he loved him and covering his face in those light, gentle kisses that the straight couples gave each other after their first declaration of love in the movies.

A minute passed. The world around him was very dark and very silent. Francis ran a hand through unkempt red hair.

A thought came to Francis very suddenly now, as if stepping outside of the apartment had somehow pulled him back into reality, into a world where time passed and people were happy.

_I haven’t finished tomorrow’s homework yet._

Francis made it to his car and breathed a soft, weary sigh. As he began to drive down the dark road towards home, he prepared himself for a long, sleepless night.

-end

**Author's Note:**

> This is... the most sexual thing I've actually written in like a year omgg. I had fun though!! tbh I really... wanted to write something abt Camilla and Francis being cute friends but then I was like "ooh I should add Charles" and then somehow that turned into... well, not the cute nice thing I was thinking of in the beginning haha...
> 
> Anyway I really don't have much to say about this. I had fun writing it and I'm happy with how it turned out. I was going to have someone beta it but I ended up going out of town and don't have any way to easily send it to them, but I did proofread it myself and will be rereading it again in the coming days so hoooopefully there are no terrible errors here! Also, if you enjoyed it I'd love it if you let me know! xx


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